


because.

by Ecphasis



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, but i'm going through old fic i wrote and figured someone might enjoy it, dean cries, dean is a taylor swift fan, idk i'm judging myself pretty hard, roman just loves dean a lot okay, this is probably seriously ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecphasis/pseuds/Ecphasis
Summary: dean wants to know why roman loves him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is so fucking old. like, i was still in high school. so, feel free to leave feedback in the comments regardless, because that's always nice. (dean being a taylor swift fan was a running gag i had going with my best friend back then, so take it with a grain of salt.)

Roman heard the door open and then shut, noted the footsteps that seemed to drag - it was Dean, he knew that immediately. No one else would have just walked in.

"Ro." Dean's voice was quiet, hoarse, like he'd screamed at the top of his lungs until he couldn't scream anymore. There was something else there - something under the quiet rasp Dean made when he needed a smoke, under the audible wall he'd erected around himself.

There was food all over the counter; Roman had finally had a chance to get his hands on food - /groceries/, god, he never knew he'd miss those. The plan had been for Roman to cook for them, because it had been forever since they'd had a proper meal and Roman had also realized he'd never cooked for Dean (it was cheesy, he knew, but Roman wanted to do that for Dean because he /could/, because no one had ever made such a simple gesture). Dinner was forgotten the second Roman heard Dean's voice. He glanced over his shoulder before slowly turning around to face his partner.

Dean's hair was absolutely crazy - he'd obviously just let it dry, because there were blond curls that Roman loved, and also pulled it a /lot/. More than usual. Which was quite a bit of hair pulling and Roman wanted to check if Dean had hurt himself, if Dean had accidentally (or purposely) pulled out any hair. Roman didn't move, though, because Dean's face was blanched, eyes wild and lost and restless, looking down at the floor in front of him. He had both hands stuffed in his front jean pockets, shoulders hunched and showing just how much the blond was slouching. Once, Roman had thought Dean just had shitty posture or he did it to look careless and confident (because there were certain times when Dean's slouch was absolutely primal and he looked as if he was hunting for something - it was hot, really). But then he'd gotten to know Dean better and he recognized it for what it really was: a defense mechanism. 

Roman raked his hair back, out of his face. He didn't move towards Dean, though he wanted to. It was almost a physical /need/ at this point, to touch Dean, make sure he was there, create simple contact. He knew how delicate this was; if Roman moved and Dean didn't want him to, Dean would leave. Hell, he'd run out, and Roman wouldn't see him for another twenty four hours. "Dean." Roman simply said his name, tone soft but voice solid, firm.

There was an instant when Dean's eyes flicked up to Roman and then they were darting around again, as if he couldn't look at anything for too long. "Why do you love me?" Dean asked abruptly, raw emotion in his strained voice; there was a sort of determination there, like he needed to know the answer.

Roman paused - the question wasn't a new one, but it was the first time Dean had ever asked it like /that/. The first time he didn't bother hiding how confused and uncertain he was, didn't disguise his self-loathing. "You need to sit down and then we can talk," Roman said slowly, holding out one hand, an offer.

Dean shook his head jerkily. "Why do you love me?" he repeated, shifting his weight and cracking his neck, looking anywhere but the Samoan.

Okay. They were going to do it like this. "You sure you don't need a smoke, babe?" Roman asked gently. He hated smoking, hated that Dean did it, but there were times when the blond needed it, needed something familiar to ground him.

Blue eyes flicked to Roman then. "You have some." It wasn't a question, though he did cock his head.

Roman nodded. "In my suitcase. Keep them on hand in case you ever-" He gestured with one hand, watching Dean move to said suitcase, open it and start digging around rather haphazardly. He finally found the pack and lighter; he had a cigarette lit and between his lips before he had straightened entirely.

"Now. I need an answer." Dean nodded jerkily at Roman, puffing furiously as the fingers of his free hand tapped out an odd little rhythm against his thigh.

Part of Roman wanted to ask why. Part of Roman wanted to just wrap Dean in his arms and hush whatever thoughts were racing through the blond's mind. But he didn't, just stood where he was, raking his hair back and pressing his lips together briefly, thoughtfully. "I love you," Roman started slowly, emphasizing each word, "because you're talented. Loyal. Hell, you're /considerate/ when you put in the effort. You're snarky and sharp-witted and have no problem calling people out on their bullshit."

Dean moved then, dropped the still-burning cigarette into the kitchen sink. He stopped in front of Roman, an arms length between them, and gazed at the larger man intently, brow crinkled, lips twisted in a frown.

When Dean didn't say anything, Roman continued. "Your dimples. Those little curls at the nape of your neck. Your bedhead. Your scars." Roman licked his lips; he was watching to see if Dean did anything but only partially because Roman /meant/ every word he was saying. "Your laugh. The fact you can be a total shit and give everyone hell. The way you lean into my hugs. The-"

And now Dean moved, wrapping his arms around Roman and pressing his face into the Samoan's shoulder. There was a pause as Roman placed a hand on the small of Dean's back, the other on the back of his neck, which he gave a gentle, barely-there squeeze. Dean mumbled something that Roman almost didn't catch, voice wavering. "Keep going. Please." 

Roman pressed a kiss to the top of Dean's head, noting the way that made him tighten his grip, fist the back of Roman's shirt and press as close as possible. "The way your nose wrinkles when you laugh. Your ginger stubble. The fact you always look to me, like you trust me to know what to do, like you want to make sure I'm still there." Something seemed to shift in Dean; there was a moment of silence, Roman stroking his hair, where there were very soft sounds being choked into his chest as Dean's fingers scrabbled at Roman's shirt. 

"I love you for trusting me. I know how hard that is - the fact you do . . . For staying with me. For meaning every word you say. For how awful you at singing." Dean chuckled, relaxed a bit against Roman, though he didn't move.

Roman reached to grasp Dean's chin, lift it to look at the blond. Dean fought, trying to duck his head, hide his face against Roman's shoulder again. "Your eyes. The fact you complain when I hold you even though we both know you like it." 

Dean's face was flushed, eyes red and watery and cheeks shining tear streaks. Roman felt his heart clench and he leaned in, kissed the tears away and then pressed his lips to Dean's. The blond shuddered and glanced away from Roman, though he didn't move away. He took slow, shaky breaths before nodding a bit too quickly. "Okay. That's good. Thanks." Dean offered a weak grin.

Roman raised his eyebrows. "/Thanks/? You don't have to thank me, genius." He pressed a kiss to Dean's forehead, humming thoughtfully. "Should I get the Taylor Swift CD?"

This made Dean brighten a bit. "Hell yeah. You could sing too, y'know." He poked Roman in the chest.

Roman laughed softly and shook his head. "No, I'll just enjoy the show," he told Dean, pressing their lips together gently.


End file.
